


Magic is a Sweet flavor hiding Malice | A Wilde Week 2020 | Day 3 | Feast/Hunger

by Das_Silberschlussel



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: A Wilde Week 2020 (Rusty Quill Gaming), Day 3 - Feast/Hunger, Purple Prose, Words as Food, no beta we die like bertie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_Silberschlussel/pseuds/Das_Silberschlussel
Summary: Day 3 - "One should always eat muffins quite calmly.  It is the only way to eat them.”Feast | HungerSome Musings on the method of Bardic Magic and on why Wilde does what he does.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	Magic is a Sweet flavor hiding Malice | A Wilde Week 2020 | Day 3 | Feast/Hunger

The breath of magic was something that Oscar Wilde would never admit sustained him. It was the air he breathed, the words he wrote, and the tune he sang. With every note he unconsciously hummed he imbibed the sweet nectar of that life-giving essence, and every letter he composed upon the page he was working magic in his mind.

A tantalizing taste of words that could dribble out onto the page or onto the ears of listeners as they stood enraptured by his literary and aural illusions. The sounds of marching feet, the clash of sword on sword, the muskets firing; all these were merely parlor tricks that he worked deftly into the tales he would feed to his listeners. A delectable meal of only his words, wherein they would be required to gorge themselves lest they suffer the hunger pains of the starved in the nights of his absence.

Magic swirled in the air around him as even the lowest of hums could evoke memories and visions in those who were not expecting them – and occasionally even those who were. When at parties he would be asked to tell his stories, recite a verse, perhaps even sing. These requests given from demure fans and with half lidded eyes or the occasional mustachioed grin. He would, of course, oblige them with songs of the sea, of the sky, of the hills of far distant lands. He would bring to these high born nobles tales and songs of far distant lands and of the jests of youth and the lengthy fall in the wake of excessive pride.

Although these nobles took in his words like they were the crumbs of a feast they had long lusted after; watching their enraptured sated expressions caused his stomach to roil with disgust. He exulted in bringing such people low, and if they were so addicted to his voice and words, then that would be the method of their downfall.

Poisoned prose gobbled greedily into the hearts and minds of his audiences, meals of curated concepts and vicious verbs to lance true to the core of the upper crust and to take them down one published piece and one whispered word at a time.


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